"There, Bob," said he, uncorking the jug and passing it forward, "you have something to drink our health in. May your shadow never grow less."
Bob took the jug, and as he raised it to his lips he quickly put it down again and slowly got upon his feet. He could distinctly make out the spars of a vessel that was lying in the bay toward which their boat was heading.
"Now, then, what do you see over there?" inquired Ben.
"I see a ship of some kind," said Bob, in a trembling voice.
"So you do," exclaimed Ben, after running his eye along the shore. "And she isn't a trader, either. She's one of our own vessels."
"An American?" shouted Bob. "Look again, and don't deceive me."
"She's an American, as sure as you live!" said the old sailor, after he had taken as good a view of the ship as he could get on account of the surrounding trees. "You never saw a clumsy-looking trader with such spars and such rigging as she has. Bob, give me a place at the oar, and you sit in the stern and steer as straight for her as you can go. By George! We're in luck."
Bob made the change, and for the next two hours forgot how hungry and thirsty he was. By the end of this time the vessel was within hailing distance. She was anchored in a little cove that set into the island, and her boats were drawn up in line on the beach, where most of her crew were assembled, apparently engaged in trading with the natives.
"She is an American, I declare!" said Bob, hardly able to contain himself. "Hail her, Ben, and find out."
"Who are you and where did you come from?" asked the captain of the ship, who appeared at the side in answer to Ben's hail.